


3 Months: The Last Trip Home

by VanStock1992



Series: The Half-Life Of Morphine [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fear of Death, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson is a Good Doctor, John is doing his best, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft is a Softie, Mycroft is a control freak, Mycroft is a mess, Mycroft is also a bit melodramatic, Overprotective Mycroft Holmes, Parentlock, Past Drug Use, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Sickfic, Unreliable Narrator, Wheelchairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29968011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanStock1992/pseuds/VanStock1992
Summary: Three months after Sherlock’s debilitating accident, Mycroft receives a text requesting help arranging a weekend trip to Sussex to see their parents.Mycroft sees between the lines the words ‘one last time’
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Half-Life Of Morphine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204169
Comments: 16
Kudos: 31





	3 Months: The Last Trip Home

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first installment in a series that takes place after Sherlock is the victim of an unfortunate accident while on a case. 
> 
> This particular storyline may have a second and third chapter depending on how well it is received but I am marking it complete for now. Perspective will change each installment of the series including shorts one from the POV of DI Greg Lestrade and Mrs Hudson as well as a full length fic (already approx 60k words and counting) alternating between Sherlock and John titled “As Good As It Gets”
> 
> If you want to verify the series warnings, please read the notes at the end of the chapter. If you’d like to remain surprised, ignore them please.

_ Mycroft’s POV _

It was never something he thought he would worry about from the back of an extended black town car that he refused to call a limousine. Limousines were gaudy and didn’t have an actual bed for medical transport. Mycroft had also never worried about acquiring one of the retched things but when Sherlock sent him texts with requests such as this- the type he had occasionally made since coming home from the hospital three months prior- The British Government was not inclined to deny the few small joys his brother had left.

_Would it be unrealistic to arrange transit for a weekend in Sussex? SH_

Mycroft recalled being perplexed by the phrasing and request for only a moment before reality knocked the wind out of him once more. Of course they couldn’t simply take John’s late wife’s cramped economy car on a journey that took over two hours without any stops for lunch or to stretch ones legs. Trips like that fell firmly under the adjective of unrealistic, something that was now used to describe many parts of life that once made his brother feel whole. Despite the conversations Mycroft had taken part in when John invited him to Sherlock’s care plan review meetings, not seeing it up close every day allowed him the luxury of forgetting only for the indulgence to punch him in the gut each time he visited which was no less than four times a week.

_It will be arranged. MH_

As much as he had wanted to say something warm and comforting, to reassure him that his big brother would take care of anything he needed, John had warned him off of doing so.

“It’s not sustainable,” He’d said. “but more than that it’s not what Sherlock would want. The fewer changes, the better. Treat him every bit like the annoying little brother that you always have. It’ll be easier that way.”

Mycroft did try. Of course he tried, if it was what was best for Sherlock, but that wasn’t anything new. He couldn’t recall a time he didn’t prioritize what was in Sherlock’s best interest above nearly all else. Which was why it was so conflicting when the best thing for Sherlock was one of his oldest vices and he had to ask his brother’s husband the most shameful phrase that ever passed through his lips.

“Are you sure you’ve given him enough morphine?” He said, Mycroft’s voice low as if his niece was likely to begin parroting it back at any moment. 

The good doctor returned his worried expression with a smile that never quite made it close enough to his eyes to be convincing and didn’t try to placate him by nodding. “It’s as much as is safe.”

Safe , but not adequate. Not proper. Not pain-free beyond the usual twinges from aging and simply being human. Not relieved of his suffering for the journey that would involve private gravel drives that wound through woods for longer than was acceptable when every jostling movement could be the drop in the ocean that caused a ripple effect that-

“Mycroft, stop.” John told him firmly, pulling him from his spiraling train of thought.

Blinking stupidly at the man seated across from him, Mycroft cleared his hoarse throat. “My apologies.”

The good doctor shrugged not unkindly. “We never thought- neither of us were told that this was going to be easy.”

“I don’t recall saying I expected it to be.” He swallowed hard and forced himself to look at his brother who was on the edge of consciousness, in part due to the morphine coursing through his veins. His face was thin, as eating had become even more difficult given the increased hours he slept and the lack of activity to make him hungry. Inside his mind palace, Mycroft hoped the baby boy he once held and swore to protect was far enough away from reality not to pick up on the fact that he was on the edge of tears. “Sherlock deserved better than this.”

John inclined his head in agreement, and Mycroft knew that if he had any more tears to shed they would be on full display. “Yes, but it is what it is.”

“ _It_ is unacceptable.” He grumbled.

“Well I wake up with  _it_ in my bed every bloody day,” John said, the anger only a thin mist over his tone. “I am raising a daughter with  _it_. Every day I am the primary caregiver of  _it_ ,  so trust me when I say that  _it_ is tearing me apart but Mycroft- Christ... don’t make me say this.”

He pressed his lips into a hard line. “No, I think you should.”

“Myc-“

“Say it.” The Elder Holmes spat, and he found it far easier to glare into the tired blue eyes of the man who he watched pull his fingers through overgrown hair that had gone entirely gray in the last year.

John shook his head, looking briefly towards Rosie who slept in her car seat beside him. “I can’t. You know I-“

“You can and you will.” 

Someone had to, eventually.

“God-“ John bit his lip for a moment and nodded nervously. “No. Not today. This is supposed to be a good day. Supper with the in-laws then help Sherlock take Rosie to feed the ducks. That’s the plan for today. Not this bloody conversation.” He grumbled and Mycroft knew that the voice of reason he and his brother had relied on was in nearly as deep of denial as he was. 

Nearly.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, only unspoken apologies moving between the two fully conscious men. Mycroft never wished to cause the good doctor any more anguish than he was already experiencing and he was well aware that John never would want so for him. Their terrible circumstances were enough to wear down even The Ice Man and Captain Watson, just as they had seemingly overnight thrown The Consulting Detective from his throne and stomped him into the dirt.

Mycroft watched Sherlock’s slow shallow breaths, and was about to say something when John clipped the pulse ox meter on his finger for one of the readings he took periodically when they were delicately balancing the substances used in Sherlock’s palliative care. Even on days where he wasn’t intentionally sedated- days Sherlock was well enough to take Rosie to the park or, very rarely, stop by a crime scene- these things were charted and stored away in a database. One might think it to be overkill but that wouldn’t have stopped them even if Doctor Fletcher, the specialist handling Sherlock’s case, hadn’t insisted on it. They were dealing with doses far outside of on label use to try to lessen the pain of an addict with the tolerance of one of their parents show winning horses.

“Resting heart rate of seventy-nine beats per minute,” He said with slight concern, given that Sherlock’s typical resting heart rate was closer to sixty. “Oxygen saturation is ninety-seven percent. Let me check his BP, just one moment-“ A button was pressed and the portable cuff already on Sherlock’s wrist inflated. “One-thirty-five over eighty-eight. How far out are we?”  


A glance out the window was all it took for Mycroft to rattle off a number. “Fourteen minutes.”

“Bugger ,” He muttered, then placed a hand on his husband’s shoulder too hesitant to push very hard in his efforts to rouse him. “Love, I need you to come up for air. Come back to me.”

Without his mind palace, Mycroft wasn’t sure Sherlock would have endured the journey. His eyes snapping open, and only moments later pinching shut as he registered his own state, was proof enough that the system worked. Or, it worked when he was on enough of those lovely aforementioned palliative care drugs to blissfully allow life to slip through his fingers. Sherlock hadn’t allowed that since he left the hospital unless it was on a day that his pain was an 8 or higher.

“Help. Me. Up.” Sherlock demanded and struggled to do so on his own until both John and Mycroft unbuckled and were there to help him. “Water?”

Finding his own bottle on the bench seat, Mycroft unscrewed the cap and held it to Sherlock’s lips to provide a few careful sips. It wouldn’t help anyone for him to choke.

“6” He said without being promoted and Mycroft rubbed circles on his back while John calculated thrice- and then sent Anthea his math to be checked- what dosages were appropriate. Two hours was typically on the safe side when it came to determining the half life of morphine, with doses recommended to be administered no more often than every four. 

John soon offered the tablets, as the intravenous solutions were for emergencies or high stress situations, in the physical sense. Sherlock liked to push the medication away most days of the week, refusing the morphine in favor of pathetic tramadol, which hatefully never scratched the surface, but he accepted the pills almost greedily before he sunk shamelessly back into Mycroft’s chest.

“Shh, little brother.” He said, brushing the suddenly sweat soaked fringe from Sherlock’s face. “You’re alright. I’ve got you. We’re almost there.”

Sherlock shook his head. “This was a stupid idea. I just wanted bring Rosie back before it got cold again.”

Before Sherlock may not be able to bring her to enjoy the gardens one last time.

“That’s not stupid.”

By the time they arrived, it was determined that Sherlock was in no state to see Mummy. At least their father had a more realistic picture of how these things tended to go and wasn’t shocked whenever he and Mycroft spoke on the phone. Keeping their parents updated was his job, while Sherlock’s was simply hanging on.

“I stink.” He declared, wrinkling his nose. “And I need- bloody hell, what do I need?!”

“Might I suggest the case containing your toiletries and shower?” 

Sherlock grunted but allowed Mycroft to help him to the guest house, which had been outfitted with the equipment needed to get him through the bad days. His brother stripped and showered on his own but left the door to the small bathroom open so Mycroft could hear in the event he needed assistance. It was only with the unintentional utilization of the bathroom mirror that Mycroft caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s weakened form.

Had it really worsened so much in just a week, or was that a trick of the mind.

“How did the drive go?” Father asked when they entered the study, disregarding the answer that had placatingly been given to Mummy over tea. 

Mycroft smiled at him ruefully. “Not as well as I’d hoped.”

“I am right here.” Sherlock growled, holding himself fairly well for a grown man Mycroft had helped dress only an hour prior. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“No one is looking at you in any particular way, Sherlock.” Siger reassured him, then pointed for both brothers to be seated in front of his desk. “I thought we might get this dreadful business out of the way. Certainly preferable to letting it hang over our heads the entire weekend, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sherlock inclined his head. “Indeed. Where do I sign?”

“Hold on, so eager.” Father chuckled. “Let’s go over things so we’re all on the same page. If the solicitor made any errors, it will be easier to correct them now than when you notice the problem already half way to London.”

“Fine.” The Younger Holmes brother said. “Though I don’t know what there is to mess up. Liquify my inheritance from Grandmere, God knows I won’t be driving any cars or jetting off to Greece or France anytime soon. Not in this life. Combine that with my remaining trust fund and payout on that policy you and Mummy purchased.”

“Total & permanent injury insurance,” Their very kind father offered, not at all put off by the sudden change of attitude. A short fuse was to be expected. “Which turned out to be a worthy investment in your line of work.”

Sherlock nodded. “Quite right. Use the account to pay out a monthly stipend for care and living expenses until my demise, at which point the checks are to be made out to first John and later John and Rosie separately to cover cost of living when she becomes of age. Does that not stitch it up nicely?”

Hearing it laid out in such simple terms and emotionless terms, as if this was any other will amendment either of them had ever done, left Mycroft feeling a bit nauseous. Still, he resisted the urge to excuse himself for a glass of ginger ale. This was aided by his father pouring him something much stronger. Only two tumblrs were filled, as alcohol was no longer in the cards for Sherlock. It was one of the many small earthly joys that had been torn away from him.

“I suppose it does.” Siger said after a while. “Or at least the portion regarding your finances and belongings. We do still need to discuss the..  ahem...  funeral preparations.”

There was a roll of eyes accompanied by a childish huff. “I’ll tell you both again, the answer is  _‘whatever John wants’_ and that isn’t going to change. Funerals are for the living. Whatever will give him peace will be sufficient.”

“Father, perhaps let me take this one?” Mycroft asked but didn’t wait for a response. “Sherlock, it isn’t fair to ask Doctor Watson to make such decisions in a time of grief, so unless you’ve asked him what he desires there is nothing for us to go on.”

“His absence from the room clearly indicates that he is not ready to have a conversation regarding the subject.”

Father chuckled. “I think I’m right there with him.”

“But what matters is if  you are ready, Sherlock.” Mycroft urged him, hoping they could get the nasty business settled once and for all then never look at the paperwork again. Grow old and tired and bury their parents decades before Sherlock buried him because parents and older siblings were supposed to go first. That was the way the world worked. The sensible order of things.

His brother indicated the note pad on the desk and Siger took it, taking down Sherlock’s bullet points without question. 

“My body is to be immediately transported to St Bartholomew’s mortuary to be autopsied by Doctor Molly Hooper, devised of whatever tissues she believes will aid her research, then immediately cremated.” Sherlock said matter of factly. 

“Two small urns shall be allocated, one for John and one for Rosie, with the rest of my remains buried under a tasteful stone in the Holmes family cemetery. Skip the service and simply send the stupid little cards with the scripture and photograph by post- if the portrait chosen includes that bloody hat I swear to god I will come back and haunt you all. 

“Send a clergyman who won’t call our marriage an abomination to speak with John. He still does pray from time to time and it could be of comfort to him. Therapy for Rosie, I won’t have her traumatized for the rest of her life when intervention is available lest she become like-“

Mycroft shook his head. “Stop speaking as if this is inevitably happening tomorrow. You’re having more good days than bad, correct?”

“That’s hardly-“

“I asked a question. Are you having more good days than you are bad?”

Reluctantly, Sherlock nodded. Why didn’t it feel like a victory? 

“Here’s to small mercies.” Father took a sip of his drink but looked less grim than the air of the room would suggest he should.

Suddenly his baby brother stood, as unsteady as he had been on his feet as when he was two feet tall, and used the edges of chairs and the wall to reach the dark oak double doors leading back to the rest of the house.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mycroft called after him and caught up on four strides. Supporting him with an arm around his ribcage, Sherlock refused to lean into him and seemed determined to pull away despite having too little strength to move his own failing  transport let alone fight Mycroft’s. 

“Let me go.” He said, and Mycroft heard it loud and clear. Between each word laid desperate need to flee an eventuality that the pre-John Sherlock would have used as justification for ending his life in one final euphoric high where he reached true nirvana before it all faded to black and then to nothing at all.

Mycroft loosened his hold to offer more of a spotting and steadying presence than a supporting one. “Just tell me where you’re going and we will get you there. John will bring your chair.”

“Mummy can’t see me in the chair.” He said. “I can do this.”

“Do what exactly?”

Sherlock swallowed and Mycroft watched a bead of sweat travel down the side of his face. Again his eyes were pinched shut and Mycroft checked his internal clock. It had been almost three hours since his last dose in the car. Three hours and a bath, tea with Mummy, and allowing Rosie to crawl all over him despite John’s repeated protests. It was likely too soon for more medication, but maybe one of the non opioid varieties would get him over the hump into the 4-6 hour window.

“Yesterday morning,” He huffed, struggling to catch his breath after he had clearly been unintentionally holding it. “Rosie asked if we could feed the ducks.”

Mycroft’s jaw dropped. “The ducks?”

“Well we don’t have swans, now do we? They fly south for the winter.”

His sarcasm was a cool breeze on the world’s muggiest day. “That’s it? That's why you wanted to come?”

Sherlock rose an eyebrow. “Yes, why?”

“No reason.” Mycroft reassured him and then turned his attention back to the problem. “I don’t think we can avoid the chair, Sherlock. John needs to do another exam and you need to be in bed.”

The frantic look in his eyes tightened Mycroft’s throat. “Take me to the sofa. John can come here to do the exam.”

“Alright. We can do that.”

John knelt beside the sofa, his brow furrowed. Mycroft leaned over his shoulder, watching as he worked and announced the readings as they’d discussed in the care plan meetings and reviews time and time again. Making information readily available and understandable was essential in keeping caretakers calm in a crisis. 

Was this a crisis? If it wasn’t, then why was Sherlock crying?

“Heart rate at a hundred and twenty beats per minute,” John said just loud enough for Mycroft and Siger to hear. “Blood pressure one-forty over ninety-six. Oxygen saturation at ninety-two percent.”

Mycroft knelt down, feeling all of his age despite being the same as the doctor that was working diligently as if he hadn’t noticed turning forty-five. “What can I do?”

“I don’t know,” John admitted. “These are so far from your baseline, Sherlock. You need to calm down. Where is your pain?” If they could lower his pain levels to something functional, the rest tended to follow suit.

Sherlock answered with the number eight and Mycroft accepted a bottle of water his father pulled from under the bar. “Small sips,” He insisted, and thanked the heavens when Sherlock gave in. “Deep breaths, brother mine. In and out slowly, that’s all you must do.”

In the end, John opted out of tablets and for intravenous administration for the most instantaneous effect. The look on their elderly father’s face as a needle full of one of the very same addictive substances that almost killed Sherlock so many times was introduced to his system by necessity would have been the very type of thing Sherlock would have given anything to see. That is, if he was aware enough to even notice Father was still in the room.

“Today wasn’t going to be a good one either way,” John said, disposing of the needle in their small sharps container. “Even at home this would have been a bad one and adding the travel on top of it was a recipe for trouble. Tomorrow will be easier, I’m sure. The week wasn’t great but it’s like a fever breaking. Bad days don’t tend to gather in clumps much longer than this.”

With morphine in his system, Sherlock had no further protests to taking the transport chair that John determined was still necessary. His blood pressure and heart rate lowered and his oxygen saturation raised, all to numbers typical of the previously active detective, Sherlock almost seemed himself no more than ten minutes later. Only feet outside the door, Mycroft watched his niece fearlessly put herself in front of Sherlock’s wheelchair that John stopped a hair in time and reach her arms up.

“Lovey...” She whined, her lower lip quivering.

“Alright, Rosie Posey. Up you go.” He answered with a genuine smile and assisted her climbing into his lap and cuddling close. This was the man that shot out walls and caused international incidents when he was bored, and he had far more patience for a child then Mycroft knew he would have on his own best day. 

John didn’t appear too bothered by his daughter stopping the procession, and Mycroft admired his patience as well. Caring for a child was one thing that the British government could easily brush off as beneath him, but caring for Sherlock day in and day out was likely the most noble vocation Mycroft could think of. If he could drop the country at the feet of Lady Smallwood and Sir Edmund, he would have done so in an instant. Medication schedules, intentionally calorically dense food preparation, bathing assistance, and appointment accompaniment were the least glamorous job responsibilities Mycroft ever would have accepted but they were for Sherlock. Had he not already proven a hundred times over that he would do anything his little brother required? But Sherlock Holmes had his Doctor Watson which allowed Mycroft the luxury to keep emotionally weighted times to a minimum in favor of verbal jousting, even if neither of them had nearly as much fight left to allocate between themselves.

“Oh Sherlock! My darling boy!” Mummy cried out, clutching one hand over her chest and the other over her mouth when they turned around the corner into the dining room that would be used on this visit. It seated eight instead of sixteen or twenty four, making it the far more intimate setting of the available three. “What has happened? Doctor Watson, what’s wrong?”

Sherlock snorted into the halo of blond hair that had itself under his nose and rolled his eyes. “Well, for starters Mummy, I was hit by a cab and then a piece of broken off-“

She whacked him on the arm, stopping only seconds after to gasp at her own actions. It was hardly a beating, clearly more similar to scolding. The type they grew up familiar with, anyway.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t think. I didn’t realize how much-“ 

He held up the hand that wasn’t keeping the toddler steady. “Stop. I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

“Well clearly not!” Mummy nearly shrieked, her voice tight and high. “Get him into a chair for dinner. Myc, help me. Quickly, now.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder and shook his head with a kind smile that showed every minute of his sleepless nights as plain as day. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Why? Can he not stand for but a moment? I’ll call an ambulance. He needs to be seen in hospital, he was walking earlier today.”

“Mummy, I’m exhausted.” Sherlock said, nearly a groan but without the energy to be properly agitated by her fussing. “John doesn’t want me sitting somewhere that doesn’t have arms for support in the event I lose my balance. I’m fine in my transport chair where I am less likely to take a tumble like a common idiot.”

The embarrassment on his brother’s face was plain as day, and Mycroft had to look away. While he told himself it was for Sherlock’s privacy, they all knew that there wasn’t much of that left between the three men. Short of handling the more sensitive aspects of trips to the loo or taking a bath, Sherlock had submitted them to doing nearly anything else for him.

“Oh, I didn’t know.” She frowned, then looked away when her eyes began to glisten. “Sit, my dears. Travel wears on us all and I believe our first course is prepared. Ana?” Violet called out and headed through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

They sat together around the table, soups with warm bread and soft butter set before them. Rosie had refused to use the high chair that converted into a booster. Instead she was clinging to Sherlock and babbling in a way Mycroft couldn’t make heads or tails of, as well as stealing every spoonful or bite he intended to get to his mouth until they established a predictable rhythm of one for her then one for him. Their tones where hushed, his niece’s voice small and Sherlock’s lowered to a moderate whisper while the rest of the table conversed or were absorbed in their meals.

As if reading Mycroft’s mind, John chuckled. “Only he knows what she’s saying dk of course he’s the one insisting she doesn’t need speech therapy.”

“Parents do tend to decide such things together.” Mummy added in, and Sherlock gave her a sour look.

“Might we not speak about my highly intelligent daughter as if she isn’t at the table absorbing and understanding everything you’re saying.” He said. “If you must know, she is enjoying the soup but thinks the bread could use more butter. As I can’t spread it myself with only one available hand, I am commiserating with her. Is this a problem or are you all determined to undermine the establishment of her self worth before she does a bloody thing wrong?”

Silently, John began to add more butter to the remaining pieces on the shared plate before Sherlock. “You could have asked.”

“It was not a necessity.”

Their meal continued on, the cook adjusting the portion sizes given to Sherlock for each course after the first to accommodate for a second smaller mouth to feed. By the end of dessert, Mycroft knew that Sherlock hadn’t eaten anything beyond the point of three or four bites into the main course, despite his struggling body demanding sustenance. Twenty pounds lost off of a 6 ft tall and 140 pound man brought his body mass index far lower than Mycroft was comfortable with seeing him.

It was for that reason Mycroft cornered John in the parlor after they both assisted in getting Sherlock and Rosie to bed at not even nine o’clock in the evening.

Stiff drinks in hand, he leaned in as to not be heard in the otherwise empty room. “He has lost far too much weight. It’s time to reconsider nasogastric intubation.”

“He won’t give his consent and I can’t force it on him.” John said and rubbed his tired eyes. “I won’t take that autonomy from him, especially since he’ll pull the bloody thing out the moment I leave the room. Sherlock thinks it will upset Rosie.”

“Good, then he understands he must  eat  in order to  live . Survival is quite necessary to continue parenting, is it not?”

“It’s not me you need to convince.”

Even after every other occupant of the house was fast asleep, Mycroft sat up with a tumblr of cognac in hand. He tried not to picture Sherlock’s hollowing cheeks, shaking fingers and protruding ribs that could be easily counted from across the room. What he tried not to picture even more than that was his condition inevitably worsening unless something was done. Somehow Sherlock had survived for years off of the excessive calories consumed during a post case binge that challenged the very definition of gluttony, but without cases and with even less appetite than before, he was wasting away right before Mycroft’s eyes.

“Oh Sherlock... what have you done?”

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe, choking on the very thought of having to execute the hastily recorded funeral plans that had been discussed the afternoon before. What would Mycroft tell people? He had been prepared for years to explain his death was due to an occupational hazard while executing noble service to Queen & Country, or a sudden drug overdose that no one could have anticipated. There was some remaining dignity in going out in a rush of euphoria.

Starvation held very little of that when he surrendered to entertaining the thought. It meant people who loved him watched and did nothing. Forcing nutritional shakes down his throat or through an NG tube meant Sherlock was loved enough for them to disregard the consequences because nothing was worse than losing Sherlock. Or did it not?

“I can’t do this anymore.” He said into the darkness, as he frequently admitted such things when there was not an audience. “I can’t watch him suffer.”

There was a sad sigh as his father shuffled into the room, clearly also experiencing a bout of insomnia and in need of a drink. “You’re handling it far better than I would. He’s dying, isn’t he?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Doctor Fletcher and John do not believe so. The seizures have decreased in frequency and there are more days spent out of bed than before. The pain persists but does come in waves. We’ve reached a place where a baseline of his neurological complications can be established, as his physical injuries have for the most part healed.”

“To think, the thing that stopped that little pirate from dashing around was a bump on the head.” Siger said as he sat down, looking all the seventy-seven years that Mycroft felt. 

He snorted. “It was hardly a bump on the head. He sustained damage to his spinal cord as well.”

Lucky he wasn’t paralyzed was what the nurses kept telling them first in the ICU and then in the regular neurological ward. That wasn’t exactly a word he would associate with someone who regularly woke because he felt as if knives were scraping the marrow from his femurs or skinning his shins in long paper thin slices for hours on end. Other than opiate pain relievers, Sherlock was on more medications than Mycroft had taken in his entire life even with his surprisingly persistent high cholesterol and asthma.

Gabapentin. Ativan. Morphine. Wellbutrin. Muscle relaxers. All dangerous on their own and nearly forbidden to be used together unless under strict and constant monitoring by a physician during palliative or hospice care. Should they not have already tried a dozen other options during Sherlock’s full month in hospital, they wouldn’t be one slip of the finger on a calculator from extreme respiratory depression that could end his life as well as his suffering.

That was a train of thought that Mycroft did his best not to humor. It did no good of any kind. 

Meticulous record keeping and repeated checking of work were a part of their established plans for a reason. Doctor Watson knew what he was doing and Anthea did as well, so he didn’t have to understand it to know Sherlock was in capable hands.

“You’ve had more than your fair share of night caps. Anymore at this rate and you'll drink me dry before Sunday dinner. Go to bed, Mycie.” Father said kindly, and Mycroft found himself pushing up out of the chair on only slightly wobbly feet. He bid his father goodnight- more like ‘good three in the morning’ \- and somehow made it to his bed before falling asleep only half undressed and without charging his phone.

Tomorrow was another day. He just wasn’t sure if he could stand to face it knowing it was one less day he had with his brother.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment and let me know what you think of this little ficlet and series premise. If people are interested, there are two other important talks I think our characters need to have during their visit, because it’s still only Friday night! 
> 
> I might even explain Rosie’s nickname for Sherlock though it’s fairly obvious. 
> 
> !!!SPOILER ALERT!!!
> 
> There will be no major character deaths in this fic, as well as any other warning other than potential graphic violence. This is a series about coping and moving on with their lives. Johnlock stays endgame, so our lovely boys are safe.


End file.
